


At the Crossroads

by LostBlogger_JenBleu



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Ace Cyrus, Anxiety, Bi, Bisexual, Depression, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gay, Illnesses, Injury, Insomnia, Jokes, Lesbian, M/M, Minor Character Death, More characters to come, Pansexual, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Tavern Jokes, Taverns, Team as Family, ally - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-09 00:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18906139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostBlogger_JenBleu/pseuds/LostBlogger_JenBleu
Summary: Crossroads are historic places of choice; fraught with fragmented friendships, marred by mourned loved ones, the weeds watered by the blood, sweat, and tears of warriors.Crossroads are places of choice, deals, and vows. But oaths are not promises, for promises can be broken, and an oath is more difficult to keep.Eight paths converged in a deep, dark wood, all trodden and worn to dust. Oaths made under moonlight are the hardest to fulfill.





	1. The Scholar

There is nothing so awkward as ending a lecture when one is finally getting invested, especially when said lecture has already gone on for a while longer than it probably should have. Cyrus could talk about the founding of various cities and states of Orsterra for days if not weeks on end without taking a breath if no one interrupted him, and that was what people tended to do.

Cyrus’s lecture this time, however, had active listeners, students he had to teach. The door to his hall opened as he spoke of Goldshore’s intervention into mainland Orsterra, prompting him to end the lesson early – rather, earlier than he intended. “Would you look at the time,” he said, catching himself before he froze up, “We’ll pick up where we left off next time.”

The fine-dressed scholar who entered received a brief nod of acknowledgment and stepped out to let Cyrus finish up. “Don’t forget to read chapters three and four before our next lecture, and be prepared to answer questions on any of the material within,” he reminded his students with a faintly mischievous grin. Princess Mary, he wasn’t worried about, but Therese had a more difficult time with her studies.

Mary and Therese thanked him for the lecture as he left. Outside, a guard waited with a message from Mercedes, the librarian. “Seems today’s your lucky day,” the guard said, knowing Cyrus all too well from standing outside this classroom every day as Mary’s guard, “You’ve been granted permission to enter the special archives.”

Cyrus’s face lit up like a child gifted with sweets. “Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Finally, I can begin my research!” Not that this was his first research project. This was, however, his pet project, one could say – his favorite. And he was not at all just beginning it, but beginning to examine primary sources rather than secondary that simply drew on the primary. It was a large step forward and would undoubtedly result in much more knowledge for himself.

He thanked the guard and raced to the Royal Library, unable to think of a time he’d been more excited in his life. As he made his way through the grand hall, he heard someone call for him.

Princess Mary hurried down the stairs to meet him. “Thank heavens you’re still here,” she said, “I thought I had missed you.”

Bemused, and always prepared to assist a student, Cyrus asked, “What can I do for you, Your Highness?”

“If you can spare the time, I have a question of something we learned today,” Mary admitted bashfully, in her soft voice. It matched her appearance, Cyrus reflected. Mary was all gentility and softness.

“Oh, of course,” he replied, “It’d be my pleasure to answer anything. My role as your tutor is as important as any of my research.”

Mary smiled shyly again. Cyrus was one of the few people who could say something as cheesy as that and still sound sincere enough she would believe him.

“Unfortunately,” Cyrus continued awkwardly, “I cannot spare much time at present. Is the question a quick one?”

Mary assured him it was. “I was wondering about the ancient religion of Hornburg,” she said, “Pray tell, what did they worship?”

“A very astute question, Your Highness,” Cyrus complimented, smiling appreciatively at her. “However, I’m afraid nearly all the texts detailing the nature of the religion were burned and lost when Hornburg fell.”

Mary sighed. “I see… A shame, that.”

Cyrus sympathized, but the truth was he’d put a bit more thought into it than he’d let on. “In truth, I have a theory of my own…” he began, already excited to share the information, “I believe the royal family of Hornburg were guardians of an ancient power. Mind you, this is not idle speculation, my theory is based on-” He cut himself off. “I do apologize, but I really must be going.”

Mary nodded. “I understand. Thank you for your time. I apologize for keeping you, Professor.” She smiled kindly. “We’ll have to continue this discussion another time.”

“No need for apologies,” he assured her. “And it would be my pleasure. That such a question could come to you is a sign of a quick and sharp intellect.”

Mary blushed faintly at the praise. “Your lectures on the history of the realm are most fascinating to me,” she admitted. She really did enjoy his lectures, and they made for much better material than most of the other tutors she had. Similarly, there was so much to learn from the past, it astounded her. She said as much, “For if I do not learn of our past, how can I hope to lead my people to a bright future?”

“A most admirable philosophy, Your Highness.” Cyrus gave a small bow of respect, “The people of this land are truly fortunate to be led by one of such wisdom and kindness. As I am truly fortunate to have the opportunity to serve in some small way.”

Mary’s blush deepened. She smiled faintly at the ground. “You are far too kind, Professor Albright. I am proud to be your student,” she replied.

A chime rang out from the local church. “Oh dear,” Cyrus exclaimed, “I’m running late!” As he began to leave, he again reminded Mary of her assignment. Once a teacher, always a teacher.

“Of course, Professor.” Mary curtsied and walked back up the steps, leaving Cyrus in the hall with the listening ears of his other student.

Halfway down the hall, he caught sight of Therese’s bright blonde hair. “Oh, hello there, Therese,” he called to get her attention. She looked up with wide eyes, like a plains sheep caught across from a fire. “Did you have a question for me as well?”

“I-I mean-” She stumbled over her words for another moment before managing, “No. Good day, Professor.” She raced out of the hall, sniffing.

Cyrus stared after her, confused. Eventually, he jumped into motion, hurrying to the library. There, Mercedes sat behind the desk as usual. She was one of Cyrus’s favorite people at the Royal Academy of Atlasdam. He smiled as he approached the desk, practically walking on air. "Good day, Mercedes,” he called, “Cyrus Albright here to browse the special archives.” Gods above, it felt so fantastic to say that at long last.

Mercedes looked up from the book she was reading and couldn’t help a small laugh. “You’re looking quite eager today, Professor Albright,” she observed.

Of course, her observation lead Cyrus to explain why. “When I heard that an original copy of _The Church of the Flame: A Complete Historie_ had been donated, I simply had to be the first to see it,” he said, practically bouncing in place.

Mercedes chuckled. “You’re more on top of our collection than I am,” she joked, handing him a sheet of paper and quill. “Just sign here…”

“With pleasure!” he replied, signing with a flourish.

Mercedes couldn’t help a small laugh before going back to her book.

“Is something amiss?” Cyrus asked, suddenly concerned. What if his access was revoked? Had he done something wrong? Was this whole thing a colossal prank? A thousand and one bad – no, horrific – thoughts ran through his head. 

“For someone known as the most brilliant minds of the Royal Academy, when you talk about books, you’re as giddy as a schoolboy,” Mercedes laughed.

Cyrus laughed as well. “When you put that way, yes! I simply love the quest to acquire knowledge!”

Mercedes eyed him warily. “Yes, the expression on your face says it all,” she half-mumbled. “Anyway, everything seems to be in order. Enjoy your quest for knowledge, Professor.”

Cyrus thanked her profusely and hurried into the archives, fingers itching to turn the pages of long-awaited tomes and scrolls. This had been his dream, yes, his quest, for so long. Now that he’d achieved it, he couldn’t be happier nor more excited. And best of all, there was still so much more to do! This quest wasn’t over, and likely wouldn’t be for a while.

However, once inside the archives, something in his ideal dream went amiss. The tome he’d come specifically to examine was nowhere to be found. He checked shelf after shelf, becoming increasingly vexed with each confirmed absence. Something had to be dreadfully wrong.

Of course, he mused, it could be something as simple as a displacement. But no, these vaults were meticulously organized and guarded. Things did not simply “get misplaced” here. As he continued pondering, he heard the door open.

He pulled a book off the shelves as quickly as possible to appear busy. Mercedes walked in, shoes clicking. “Professor Albright, the headmaster would see you at once,” she informed him. A slight tremor in her voice told him he would not be receiving commendation or praise in this meeting.

At once worried, he replaced the tome and followed her, his own boots clicking on the stone floors as well. As he followed Mercedes, a plan formed in his mind. “Mercedes?” he asked, “Could I ask of you a favor?”

“What might that be?” she replied, slightly breathless. Every girl in Atlasdam dreamed of being asked this question by Professor Albright. The poor man was the heartthrob of the Royal Academy – and he had no idea. Perhaps that was for the best, she reflected, he probably wouldn’t know how to conduct himself if he knew half of the staff of the Royal Academy lusted after him.

“The tome I mentioned before seems to have gone missing,” he informed her, “Could you locate it for me?”

Mercedes’s brow wrinkled. “Missing? Huh. I’ll start looking at once, Professor.” This could pose a real problem if the tome had actually gone missing from the special archives. Anyone who’d recently gained access would be a suspect – and if Cyrus was already on the headmaster’s bad side, he could be the prime suspect, even the scapegoat should the situation become dire enough.

“Many thanks, my dear,” Cyrus said, his mind elsewhere. Mercedes made her way back to the vaults while Cyrus braced himself for a sharp put-down by the headmaster.

The headmaster’s office was one of the most exotic and luxurious rooms the Royal Academy offered. This was understandable, of course, but still raised some eyebrows around town, Cyrus’s included, though he would never voice such opinions. Two large griffin statues stood silent guard outside the door, dead eyes staring down any who dared to enter.

Cyrus shoved down his reservations and knocked. As long as he appeared confident, no one could tell he wasn’t. “Cyrus Albright, by your request, sir,” he called, aware the headmaster was always one for formalities. 

Headmaster Yvon’s voice rang out, biding him enter. Inside the office was equally as imposing – if not more so – than the gargoyles outside. Meticulously organized bookshelves lined the walls, large windows let pools of sunlight spill on the lush red carpet. His desk was the envy of scholars, a flawless cut of deep brown wood, the grain practically invisible. No one was entirely sure what it was made of, but everyone wished for it.

Headmaster Yvon himself, however, was less than imposing. Perhaps that’s why the office had to be so impressive. Yvon’s voice reminded one of olive oil or grease, and his looks reminded them of it too. His dark hair slicked back shone in the light like a lamp. As did his clothing embroidered with gold filigree. Despite this, he had what one would call a weak face. It was rather pinched, in Cyrus’s opinion, and far too round. A bristly mustache oiled to look silky sat above his lip and curled at the ends. His eyes were sunken in his head, so he wore dark paint around them to accentuate his blue irises. He was a master of appearance, that was certain, but not so much of anything else. 

Cyrus had one clear goal in life, and that was to never turn out like Headmaster Yvon.

“My apologies for summoning you on such short notice,” Yvon’s slimy voice crowed, a false sense of comradery lacing the words.

Swallowing whatever words first came to his tongue, Cyrus politely inquired, “How might I be of assistance, Headmaster?”

“That treatise on arcane studies you published…” he began, stroking the greased mustaches. For a moment, Cyrus wondered if he’d incorrectly judged Mercedes tone. His chest lifted slightly with pride – until Yvon continued and punctured it with his words. “What in the gods’ names were you thinking?!” he snarled.

Cyrus nearly stumbled away from him, he was so taken aback. “Sir? I believe I made my hypothesis perfectly clear-!” he refuted. As a general rule, he tolerated criticism. He wasn’t above it, at least. But this was not constructive criticism! This was a reprimand of some sort! And for what?! 

"I’m not talking about your _hypothesis_!” Yvon spat, his tone oozing impatience. “You went out of your way to cite one of the texts in our special archives!” 

Cyrus couldn’t believe his ears. His sources were the problem? Not even his sources, but his _references_?! This was absurd! Absolutely absurd!

"The knowledge housed in those tomes is the Royal Academy’s greatest treasure!” Yvon continued, “It is not to be divulged to the public at your whim! Laying it bare in one of your silly papers is out of the question!”

Scrambling to defend himself, Cyrus strolled forward. “I am fully aware of the value of those tomes, Headmaster,” he replied, racing to justify himself, “It is for that very reason I would share that knowledge with my peers-”

“You are to _share_ nothing!” Yvon shouted, “That knowledge is for the Academy and the Academy alone!”

If Cyrus couldn’t believe what he heard before, this pushed him over the edge. His voice rose in volume nearly to match Yvon’s, though without the slipperiness of the Headmaster’s. “But that goes against everything-!”

“Enough, Cyrus!” His hands hit the desk, the crash echoing through the room. Strings of glimmering hair hung down in Yvon’s face. Whether the wet appearance came from the product or his sweat, Cyrus didn’t know. Either way, he felt a deep-seated repulsion for the slimeball in front of him.

He so dearly wanted to push the proverbial envelope, to keep arguing his position as he did so often and eloquently in his papers. But his carefully constructed defenses would fall on deaf ears, he knew. And now just deaf, but willfully deaf ears that refused to hear rather than couldn’t.

Knowledge was not some treasure trove to be guarded like a dragon’s hoard. It was a beautiful gift to the world everyone deserved to have access to, regardless of their level of education or who they worked for. Knowledge did not come to the world some forbidden fruit, it came in the legends of old, in the stars and the stories and the ink that stained his hands and his heart. If he had his way, those tomes would be available to anyone at any time. He would teach the children of Atlasdam to read, without payment from the Academy or the parents. 

Mary was right, knowledge of the past helped the future. A knowledgeable world never allow horrible wars such as the ones that led to the downfall of Hornburg if everyone knew their actions could destroy a kingdom! Well, perhaps that was a little optimistic. But people would check each other. If good, true knowledge was available to all, why then, Cyrus believed, then the world would be a much better place.

But that was not how Yvon saw it, no sir. He saw power as a gilded crown, a prize gem, a flawlessly cut diamond. In their society, knowledge was seen as power. As Yvon was headmaster, he knew that better than anyone. And everyone knows, power corrupts. It seemed Yvon was no exception. And like every other corrupt, power-drunk buffoon, he felt the need to enforce his opinions as law.

Cyrus knew there was no point arguing, as much as he disagreed. He kept a sigh to himself. “My sincere apologies, Headmaster. It won’t happen again,” he assured him, the words almost physically painful to speak. He also had a strange notion his voice sounded as greasy as Yvon appeared. “Is there anything else you need of me?”

“That is all,” Yvon declared, running a hand through his hair to slick it back once more, “You may go.” As Cyrus turned to leave, Yvon called out, “Wait! There was one more thing.”

Closing his eyes for a moment to fight down the surge of anger that raged through him at the cheap attempt to control the conversation, Cyrus turned around to face the Headmaster once again. “Sir?” he asked for clarification.

“I heard the secret archives will be closing early today. If you have research to do there, I would do so quickly,” Yvon replied, turning to face one of the large windows, hands clasped behind his back in a stance conveying complete confidence and control.

‘Oh yes, you _heard_ ,’ Cyrus wanted to say, ‘It’s not as though you have final say over when those archives open and close, and you decided you’d toss a “punishment” my way for “disobeying” you. No, it’s not like that at _all_.’

He, of course, did not say any of this. He did not want to get sacked. Instead, he said in the same falsely polite voice, “Thank you for your concern, Headmaster. In that case, I’ll be going.”

Cyrus managed to civilly stroll out of Yvon’s office. Once outside, he stalked to the library, steam practically pouring out of his ears. People who generally would’ve spoken to him avoided him like the plague. It was probably for the best, as he was in no mood for conversation.

The minute he stepped in the library, Mercedes ran up to him. “Professor Albright!”

Believing she had good news for him, Cyrus’s sour mood evaporated instantly. “Did you have any luck finding the tome?” he whispered, nonverbally telling her their interaction was to stay between only themselves. 

Mercedes shook her head slowly. “I’m afraid not…”

“Well. This is most unfortunate,” he bluntly observed. Perhaps it was his foul mood – which had returned full-force – but a sudden and terrible thought entered his mind; “One might conclude… it had been stolen.”

A cautious expression appeared on Mercedes’ face. “Professor,” she reasoned, not wanting to believe someone had stolen something from under her nose, “Removing books from these archives is strictly forbidden. And it is well-guarded; the keys are entrusted only to a select few!” Cyrus continued to ponder as Mercedes finished with a grand, “Quite honestly, it would be easier to steal the crown off the king’s head!”

And suddenly, Cyrus cared nothing for Yvon’s unyielding pettiness. An impregnable vault, a missing tome... “It would seem we have quite the mystery on our hands,” he stated, beginning to grin, “And the mysteries of the world are meant to be solved!”

Cyrus had never told anyone, but his dearest desire growing up had been to solve mysteries. Part of the reason he was so fascinated with the topics of Hornburg and old religions was that little existed as verifiable fact. They were real life, historical mysteries that had yet to be solved. Gods, if he could answer just one of the millions of questions scholars had posed over the years, he could die happy, without any regrets.

He turned to Mercedes. She had worked her most of both of their times at the Royal Academy. She knew the library and its vaults like the back of her hand. “Would you agree with my hypothesis?” he asked, eyes bright and questioning. 

Mercedes thought about everything and honestly, couldn’t see any alternative. All the same, she didn’t necessarily want Cyrus poking around if the tome had been stolen. It could be dangerous, and the last thing anyone wanted was to see Cyrus Albright hurt. “If it _had_ been stolen,” she began, “I would say it’s a job for the city guard.” Seeing how Cyrus seemed to droop, she amended herself. “But I can see you won’t let it go until you’ve ‘cracked the case,’ as it were.”

Cyrus beamed. “You could say that, indeed! A habit I can’t seem to break,” he joked. More seriously, he entreated her, “Once a puzzle is placed before me, I simply cannot rest until I’ve worked out a solution!”

Mercedes could see Cyrus wanted to get to work. As much as she enjoyed talking with him, she knew she would likely be an unwelcome addition to his sleuthing crew. Of course, anyone was an unwelcome addition according to Cyrus. He preferred working alone. “Well far be it from me to stand in your way,” she said with a grin and a sigh, “It must be tough, being a genius.” 

Cyrus let out a roaring laugh, starling the other members of the library, who shot him filthy looks. He waved an apology and turned back to Mercedes. “I’ll not deny it,” he jested. His gaze softened. “Worry not- the tome will be back on the shelf before you can bat an eyelash,” he assured her.

“Thanks. Best of luck in your search,” she offered, smiling bemusedly as he walked away, sauntering as though he had not a care in the world.  
Cyrus couldn’t fight the upwelling excitement and eagerness in his chest as he marched out onto the streets. The game is afoot!

The streets of Atlasdam bustled at all hours of the day, even in the more closed off Academy area. Guards, merchants, scholars, travelers all had places to be. The chaos of the city never overwhelmed Cyrus though. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. It planted in his mind the idea that sometimes, people weren’t watching him, that they weren’t expecting anything from him except that he doesn’t walk into their path. It lifted a weight off his shoulders that he often carried around the Academy. Yes, Mercedes was correct. It was tiring being a genius because people expected you always to be a genius. And that was simply unrealistic.

He realized as he made his way across the road, that he had no idea who held the keys. “Well… damn.” He turned back to the library – and before he could burst inside to inquire with Mercedes, he spotted the guard outside with his chin resting on his chest, helmet pulled low over his eyes.

He raised an eyebrow. The guard would know who had been frequenting the library – and who all had the keys. He approached and waved. When no reaction came, he gently tapped the guard’s leg with his foot and proceeded to examine his nails as the guard awoke. 

“Hello there,” Cyrus said, slipping into his detective persona. “I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

The guard stared at him. “Yeah sure, whatever.” This was the Royal Academy, after all. Scholars took polls and surveys frequently. This was nothing new.

“Do you have a key to the library vaults?” Cyrus inquired, scrutinizing his face for any signs of untruths. Of course, he didn’t really need to. 

“Yeah, of course. I guard the gods-damned library,” he replied rudely.

“Were you sleeping just now?”

“No! I was resting my eyes! And y’know what, so what if I was?! What kind of fool would bother to steal a worthless tome anyway?!” The guard glared at Cyrus. He knew all about compulsion spells, he was no damn fool to walk into the Royal Academy without any knowledge of what kind of tricks those damn scholars had up their sleeves. Oh yeah, he knew all about compulsion magic. Staring after Cyrus, he glowered. That was some gods-damned compulsion magic if he ever felt it. Fuckin’ scholars.

Cyrus also knew plenty on the subject of compulsion magic. Generally, he knew a lot about the subject of magic. Another of his favorite subjects, he spent years studying up on fire, ice, and thunder magic – it was mostly theoretical, but he’d almost mastered some basic fire spells. He was so near to mastering the basics of ice magic he could almost taste it. But none of it came as easily as compulsion and analytical spells. Compulsion and analytical magic were quite different from the rest of magic. Instead of providing a source of offense or defense, as most magic did, scholarly magic was in a class of its own. Its effects were much more subtle than pillars of flame, mountains of ice, or writhing storm clouds.

Compulsion magic compelled people, as the name implied, and Cyrus used it to compel people to tell him the truth. People had a bad habit of lying about things, and Cyrus did his best to eliminate that factor from his investigations. It helped immensely, despite some people (such as the guard) building up an immunity. Of course, all that was required then was to subvert the magic in a new way. Compulsion magic was tricky and fickle, as varying as the person one attempted to compel. Part of that was why Cyrus loved it so much.

Inside the library once again, Cyrus found a fellow scholar by the name of Russell browsing the shelves. Russell was much more susceptible to the magic than the guard. “I haven’t got a key to the archives, but I’m not surprised someone stole a tome, considering what they’re worth. I’ve gambling debts myself, I understand the temptation…” he admitted.

Talking to Mercedes gleaned nothing more than who had keys: the guard outside (as he said himself) and Headmaster Yvon. Wonderful. Another visit to the swamp monster. Cyrus was very glad no one could hear his thoughts.

Yvon was, as expected, very unhappy to be confronted by Cyrus yet again. “You know full well I have a key to the special archives, and that I would never be so foolish as to let it fall into the wrong hands, in any event,” he snapped, “I have had no reason to pursue those tomes in quite some time. Now get out of my office, Albright!”

Cyrus gladly and hastily exited.

Outside, he took a seat on one of the many benches overlooking the cobbled streets. He thought to himself about everything he knew. The guard and the Headmaster were the only ones with keys. The headmaster would never steal a tome because he’d have no urge to sell it; he was plenty wealthy already and hated sharing knowledge. The guard had no reason to steal one either – as he thought they were worthless. But someone could have easily lifted the key as he slept. But who? It would have to be someone who needed the money, someone who understood the value of the tome.

An epiphany hit. ‘Of course! It all makes sense now!’ He stood, astounded. “That shifty scholar!” he cried, startling a nearby group of city birdens. All he had left to do was find the thief and secure his confession. But where could he be?

Pacing, Cyrus reflection and recounted every shred of gossip he’d heard in the past few weeks. Any throwaway remark, any musing, any rumor could have the answer he needed. It hit him like a giant sheep. He recalled fellow scholar Anton’s statement regarding Russell. _“Rumor is he’s been working underground recently. Gods know what for.”_

But where? Cyrus recalled a shoddy mineshaft someone mentioned and hurried to the opening. It had been in disuse for decades if he remembered correctly. So why did the wood and fastenings look new? 

He hurried to the mines. Yes, this was the place. Small floating lights lit up the path to Russell’s workshop. He burst in with no faint dramatics. “Russell!”

The scholar whirled around, eyes wide and crazed. “Professor Albright!” he cried, voice full of venom. He covered his panic with indignation. “Are you always in the habit of barging into your peers’ offices while they’re working?!”

“My apologies,” Cyrus replied, sounding as unapologetic as possible. “I would’ve knocked, except… I didn’t see a door.” Some may say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, he meditated, But they’re the ones who only feel its sting.

“Apropos of nothing,” Cyrus continued boldly, “Mayhap you’ve heard a certain tome was stolen from the archives.”

Russell’s eyes narrowed, he crossed his arms. Defensive body language, Cyrus noted. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about!” he snapped.

Cyrus mocked a pout. “Come now, Russell. Playing dumb is only going to drag this out for the both of us,” he chided, before his face turned stone cold, his eyes as merciless as the griffins outside Yvon’s office. “So let’s cut straight to the heart of the matter: you’re a thief, and I can prove it!”

“The hells you can!” Russell fired back, face turning as red as his hair.

Cyrus narrowed his eyes in victory. ‘I’ve got you now, you bastard…’ He sighed heavily, knowing this role called for some class A acting. “Unfortunately for you, at precisely the moment you were trying to sneak back with the key your friend the guardsman was just waking from his little slumber.” No one who met him would call Cyrus cold, but in that moment, he could have been ice for the chill in his voice.

Russell gaped, taken aback. “That’s impossible!” he spat, “He was asleep, I’m positively-!” The realization of what he just said him like a boulder. He whirled around to face Cyrus’s analytical eyes.

He raised a knowing eyebrow. “Keeping up on our friend’s somnolence, are we, old chum?”

“It-it was a slip of the tongue, I tell you! I know nothing of this gods-damned book!” Russell shouted.

Cyrus almost lost his composure. Good gods, the man was still trying to get out of this? The one thing more damning than all of this would be for the book to fall out of his robe! No, he couldn’t lose his cool. He had to stay certain and confident and sure.

Cyrus shook his head in contempt. “Figured you say as much.” Russell probably wouldn’t let this go so easily. One last effort before throwing in the towel on a peaceful resolution? Why not. “Then perhaps you’d care to accompany me to the Academy?” he suggested, “To prove your innocence, of course.”

“Damn it!” Russell screamed, “Damn it all to hell!” He stood in an attack position, battle ready. “It was the perfect plan! If not for your bloody meddling, I could have had it all!” He summoned two ice-formed beings to his side.

Cyrus readied himself for a fight. Russell launched attack after attack in his direction, but he was erratic, afraid, unable to control himself. Cyrus, as fraught with fear as he was to be in his first real battle, forced himself to stay calm and rational. Dodge a blast here, throw a fireball there, and now run, run, run – safe for the moment – jump back into action.

The fight was over quicker than it began, and ended with Russell collapsing on a heap in the floor, covered in burns and mage-wounds. “I swear, I never meant to…” he whimpered, “I just needed the money…”

Cyrus sighed at the sight, realizing a small flutter of sympathy for the man. “That tome would fetch a small fortune, this much is true.” He couldn’t believe, however, that someone could be so rash as to steal from the special archives. “And yet, did you not for a moment consider the consequences?” he asked.

Taking a knee by Russell’s side, he rested a hand on his shoulder, imploring him to understand. “In stealing that tome, you would steal from our students something more valuable than all the realm’s riches.” He sighed again, this time feeling less sympathy and more pity for the pathetic man in front of him. He stood. “A grave crime,” he continued, “No matter who would perpetrate it, but all the more unforgivable when committed by one who calls himself a scholar.” 

He did not feel guilty turning Russell in. The man deserved to face the consequences of his actions. All the same, it didn’t exactly feel good. Still. He’d recovered the book, which was of the utmost importance, and returned it to Mercedes, who promised to look after it.

In speaking with Mercedes, he learned that Russell had stolen several other tomes as well. She assured Cyrus he had confessed to all of them and given them the means to reacquire them. Examining the list, Cyrus noted one book that was still marked ‘missing.’ “Did Russell steal this one as well?” he queried.

Mercedes saw the title and immediately shook her head. “I can assure you he did not. It’s been missing for some… fifteen years now,” she informed him, “Russell wasn’t even here fifteen years ago.”

She ought to have known better than to bring up another puzzle to Cyrus. He jumped on the chance to ask her more. “Pray, tell me more about _From the Far Reaches of Hell_ ,” he begged.

Mercedes began to look through the records on it. “It would seem to be a compendium of ancient rites and long-lost magicks,” she began, “I believe it was the single oldest volume housed within our archives. Needless to say, it was a tremendous loss.”

Musing to himself, Cyrus grinned faintly. “Yet another mystery, it would seem.” He was on the verge of asking more questions when the doors opened to admit Headmaster Yvon’s assistant, Lucia.

“Professor Albright. The Headmaster would see you at once,” she stated, her voice flat and dull, in all probability to match her personality.

“Again?” Cyrus blurted, forgetting to check himself, “What could it be this time?”

Mercedes offered the optimistic chance Yvon wanted to commend him for his role in apprehending Russell. Cyrus had a feeling it wouldn’t be such a pleasant visit.

In the office, Cyrus breached the conversation tentatively, with a generic, “What can I do for you, Headmaster?”

Yvon cleared his throat and Cyrus felt all hopes of accolades flee like rats from a sinking ship. "Professor Albright…” Yvon began, making a show of fumbling for words he’d probably rehearsed, “A most… _troubling_ report has reached my ears.”

This couldn’t be good… But where was it going? “A report, sir?”

Yvon slammed his hands on his desk again, the accusation pouring out of him like a tide of aged, filthy water. “An anonymous source claims that you have abused your prestigious position to enter into an illicit relationship with Her Highness the Princess!”

Cyrus gaped in astounded awe, unable to find words to reply before he managed to sputter out, “And you believed this report, sir?”

Yvon’s outlined steely gaze bored into Cyrus. “If it is untrue, then say so,” he snarled, annunciating every word.

Untrue? If it was “untrue?” It was not just untrue! “Why, it is unfounded, unsubstantiated, balderdash of the highest order!” he cried.

Turning back to his power-stance window, Yvon reluctantly informed him he could not take him at face value. “The situation is not so simple,” he explained.

Cyrus resisted the urge to shout that it was.

“A rumor regarding the royal family, even an ‘unsubstantiated’ one such as this, is sure to spread quickly,” Yvon cautioned, his voice as sweet and deadly as a poisonous mushroom, “If we do not act quickly, Princess Mary’s good name may be forever sullied. That is something that simply cannot be allowed to happen.” He turned back to Cyrus, his cold blue eyes seemed to stare straight into Cyrus’s soul. “Surely,” he reasoned softly, “You understand.”

For the first time in his life, Cyrus realized the power this man had. He controlled everything and everyone in the palace. A word from him and the rumor would spread like wildfire, or it would be crushed entirely. A wave of his hand could free prisoners and organize the masses. Yes, Headmaster Yvon could indeed be intimidating. But only when circumstances allowed for it.

“And so what do you intend to do with me, sir?” Cyrus asked cautiously, careful to keep any sort of emotion out of his voice.

“It’s not an easy decision to make…”

‘I’d bet you’ve already made it…’

“Dismissing you outright would be tantamount to an admission of guilt,” Yvon rationalized, beginning to realize his initial plan wouldn’t work.

Lucia always thought of Cyrus as a good person. He remembered her name, which most of the scholars couldn’t say, and he greeted her with a kind smile and a wave when they ran into each other while working. She didn’t want him fired, but Yvon’s plan was nothing short of manipulation. Still... if it kept his reputation from ruin, it was worth it. “If I may be so bold, sir…” she interjected, exactly as Yvon instructed her, “Might I suggest a sabbatical?”

Cyrus looked at her for further explanation.

“Professor Albright is put on extended leave while official accounts show he’s doing fieldwork in a distant land,” she finished, not meeting Cyrus’s eyes.

“What say you, Cyrus?” Yvon asked, patting his shoulder, “This way both the Academy’s reputation and your own will remain intact.”

Cyrus almost laughed. Yvon was a greater fool than he initially thought if he believed his little plan with Lucia to be hidden from Cyrus. It was so obvious. They’d backed him into a corner, trapped him under a box, and were holding open only one specific exit. He hated that feeling. “My… _reputation_?!” he exclaimed, furious.

Yvon’s voice went cold again. “Do we have a problem, Professor?” he asked, not liking where this was headed.

Cyrus had been just about to let loose on the Headmaster, to really rip into him the way he wanted when a thought occurred to him. He smiled, too wide and too sweet. “Not at all,” he assured the headmaster, “On the contrary, this might prove the perfect opportunity.”

Yvon felt as though his own pride had been punctured. “Opportunity?” he spat, “For what?” This wasn’t how this was supposed to go! Cyrus was supposed to accept his fate, resigned and miserable, and walk out without any hope. This “sabbatical” was supposed to destroy him from the inside out. And now he thought it was an “opportunity?” 

“As a matter of fact, there’s a matter that has piqued my interest as of late,” Cyrus informed him, still smiling too much, “And I was just wondering when I might get time to do a bit of research in the field! I think I _will_ set forth on a journey…” ‘A journey to solve a mystery and share knowledge with the world.’

Cyrus knew he would suffocate if he stayed here any longer. Hells, he knew that months ago. The incident regarding his published paper was the capstone to the archway of his exit. This had been a long time coming, and now there was nothing holding him back. In fact, things seemed to be urging him to go.

Yvon wore a forced smile to match Cyrus’s own. “Is that so? Do tell, Professor, what is it you intend to investigate?” he inquired.

“As regards a certain tome,” Cyrus said, purposely leaving the statement as vague as possible. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must begin packing for my journey. Good day to you, Headmaster.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office.

Gods above, that felt fantastic.

He rode the high until he exited the tower and came upon Therese in one of the squares. “Professor!” she called, shouting across the nearly empty area.

“Oh, Therese,” he said, smiling, “What is it?”

“I… I heard that you were leaving the Academy,” she admitted, eyes trained on the ground as always. Therese was such a shy girl, Cyrus knew, a shame. She was brilliant, even if she didn’t realize it yet.

“Then you heard true,” he confirmed.

To his surprise, she teared up. “P-Professor… I’m-I’m so sorry!” she cried.

It all clicked into place. He sighed and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I see… So you were the source of the rumor.”

“You… You knew?” She sniffed and wiped a stray tear off her cheek.

“Not until just this moment,” he replied, “When you apologized. And yet I cannot fathom your motive. Why would you fabricate such a terrible lie?” He was careful not to sound accusatory, but sad, disappointed.

Therese’s gaze fell back to the ground. “You’re always helping Her Highness,” she muttered, “Answering her every question…” She sniffed again. “I just wanted you to… pay more attention to me,” she admitted.

Cyrus immediately felt awful. “And that’s why you went to the headmaster?” he clarified.

She nodded reluctantly. “But… I just wanted to get you in- in a little trouble… I didn’t think they would… Professor, I’m so sorry! Can you ever forgive me?”

Cyrus smiled sadly at her, trying to console her best he could. “Worry not, my dear, it just so happens I was looking for an excuse to go on a journey,” he told her.

The look on Therese’s face made the soft lie worth it. “You were?” She was so relieved, so blissfully glad not to have ruined his life as she thought she had.

Cyrus nodded. It wasn’t a complete lie anyway, he had been wanting to travel. And he told her as such to ease her mind a little more, even going so far as to joke, “I daresay the timing couldn’t have been better! You may have even done me a favor!”

Therese began to smile and he felt better, though knew he ought to apologize as well. “I am also partly at fault in the matter,” he admitted, “I did not see what a young and ardent scholar you are. In my eagerness to answer Her Highness’s eager questions, I’m afraid I gave the impression I favored her over you and the others, but this is not the case. I pray while I am gone you do not shirk your studies, my girl.”

Therese shook her head sadly, though he did not notice. “Never,” she promised. She turned to leave before glancing back at Cyrus. “Where do you plan to journey?” she asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted. Cyrus looked out over the sprawling city of Atlasdam, and to the flatlands beyond the walls. “You see,” he said, “There’s a matter I simply cannot wait to investigate.”


	2. The Dancer

_“Even when the blade is held at your heart, faith shall be your shield.”_

Nightmares. They disturbed her sleep often enough the other girls let her toss and turn. Primrose did not have their favor anyhow.

Her nightmares followed similar tracks every night. She found herself back in the home she grew up in with her father, hiding behind a low table, a child once again. She stayed crouched low to the ground, peering through the legs of the furniture to witness the scene unfolding. Three cold voices spoke in sync, rasping and cold like storm-bearing winds through dying leaves. She sensed rather than saw them behind her. They rasped, “The things in this world can be divided into two categories; things one is better off knowing, and things one is better off… not.” She knew their appearance by heart. Black vests, hoods thrown up to mask their heads, the men each branded with a crow’s emblem.

Her memories claimed her father was surrounded by them, on his knees but willing to fight. Her dreams lied to her and painted a far more horrifying image; he was shackled at the wrists and ankles, chained to the ground and completely at their mercy. Her father’s voice rang out in conflict with the crows’, repeating the same words he said to her so often; “Even when the blade is at your heart, faith will be your shield.” His eyes shifted to meet Primrose’s where she hid. When their eyes met, the view shifted. She saw the scene through her father’s eyes. She saw herself, young and afraid. The men’s faces were hidden in the shadows of their cowls.

The three men moved toward him, the brands blazing with black light. Dark energy surrounded them, morphing them into a colossal crow. It swooped down, a claw or blade pierced her father’s **[her own]** gut. She felt none of the pain, but each heartbeat in her chest hit like a drum, sending blood pouring from the wound, sticky and warm as it coated her legs and torso.

She met her own tear-filled eyes and found herself staring back from the ground at her father’s lifeless body. Deep red stained the floor around him. She rushed to her feet, a cutting scream ripped from her throat. The crow turned on her and spread its wings, blocking her view of anything but the deep black expanse of its feathers. Everything blurred, she heard a screech as of battling cats – or of talons on stone. 

Primrose Azelhart awoke in a cold sweat, a scream on the tip of her tongue. She forced herself to stay quiet, knowing that if she showed any weakness in front of the other girls, it would only cause them to lose whatever small amount of respect or tolerance they had left for her. It was bad enough having Helgenish’s favor over them… she didn’t need any more problems with them.

“Prim?” She turned to see Yusufa sitting on the edge of her bed. Yusufa was her one ally in this hellhole, her one friend. “Are you alright?” she asked in her soft voice. 

Primrose sighed, resisting the urge to rub her eyes – it would only smear the paint she had to wear as a dancer. She sat up and shifted to sit against Yusufa’s side. “I am not sure,” she replied honestly.

Yusufa was used to Prim’s issues. Not “used to” per se, but familiar with. “Was it the dream again?”

“Yes.” Gods, this constant pain and hatred exhausted her… but there was nothing else for her. Not now. If there had been something for her after her father died ten years ago, Helgenish and his ‘customers’ had stripped it from her. “I will never forget,” she whispered. The age-old vow settled once more in her bones, turning them to forged steel.

Three men, each marked with the sign of the crow. Foul scavengers, like the bird whose mark they bear. They took her father. “I will never forget…”

The other dancers paused their conversation to watch the outcasts. “How nice it must be to be the master’s favorite,” one of them muttered, not bothering to lower her voice. Primrose knew they cared not for her, and they knew full well she cared not for them.

“Let her keep her airs,” another chided, a snide glace directed at Primrose, “Think she’s so much better than us…”

“You’re just another dancer in the sands, Primrose. Just another kept woman,” the third snarled, “Here to flatter to the dignity of men who pay for the privilege.”

Words like that came at her often while she’d been in the Sunlands, especially since she’d become a dancer of Helgenish’s. At first, they had hurt, sliced her to ribbons like cold knives and skinned her every nerve. She was a mess of wounds for years before building up enough of a shield to protect herself. They could say what they pleased now, it didn’t matter to her.

“I suppose you’re right,” she replied, careful not to betray any emotion they could exploit. Showing weakness before these women was leading a lamb to the slaughter. 

“Shh!” someone called, “Master Helgenish is coming!”

The girls raced to stand together as the door slammed open. Helgenish’s large form took up the entire doorway, blocking out the street and any sliver of hope from getting into the room. The instant he spotted them, his face fell into its customary bright red scowl. “Do I keep you women here to titter in the shadows?!” he shouted, “My customers are waiting for their entertainment!”

Helgenish owned the harem. His agreement with the tavern owner meant that his customers could watch the dancers there and make any transactions they required. “The opening act should be on stage already!” he snarled, “Now get out there and earn your keep!”

Watching them go, he shook his head scathingly. “Bunch of useless strays…” Helgenish ranked his dancers, he had his obvious favorites. They received preferential treatment, things like better food, “better” customers. Helgenish made his favorites obvious, holding them to higher standards than the others, like a goddess for them to emulate on stage and in bed. When Primrose first arrived, it had been Saniya. She passed a few years past due to illness no one wanted to name.

“But not you, Primrose,” Helgenish purred, coming to stand close **[too close]** to her. His beady eyes roamed her. “You are the only one I can rely on.”

Primrose dropped her eyes and assumed as unthreatening a posture as she could manage. “You flatter me, Master.” The words tasted of bile and poisonous hatred she fought to keep out of her voice.

Helgenish smirked, patting her shoulder. “Oh, hardly. Why,” he exclaimed, “This tavern’s custom has increased tenfold since you stepped on our stage! But do not go forgetting yourself.” His face turned cold and cruel in the blink of an eye. His eyes and grip turned iron, too tight and too controlling. “It was I who groomed you for this role.”

Primrose grit her teeth and forced herself to speak. “And I will be forever grateful for that, Master.”

“You were an ignorant girl when I picked you up! Completely useless! I’ve taught you everything you know!”

Primrose focused her energy on keeping her eyes cast downward. She knew this ploy all too well. This was how he kept control over the women he held captive. He cut them down, made them feel worthless and made them hate themselves. They broke under his constant abuse **[in more ways than one]** and he made sure to never let all the pieces back together. But Primrose refused to allow him to ruin her. He might have the rest of the puppets on his strings, but she would be damned if she let anyone control her. 

Yes, he could say what he liked, do what he dared. She would never let him break her. Of course, she had to play the game, make him believe she was nothing more than clay in his hands. If he believed for a moment that she wasn’t completely under his thumb… the consequences didn’t bear thinking of.

She took too long to answer and realized her mistake too late.

A smack rang out, her face stinging from the hit of his palm. “What happened to your sweet little smile?” he snarled, ugly and balding. He never looked more his age than when he was angry.

Don’t cry out, don’t react, don’t react. A mantra of survival. Don’t react, don’t react.

“Who puts a roof over your head, and food on your plate?! Who bought the jewels that adorn your pretty neck?! Who made you the most sought-after dancer in this dusty old town?!” His voice writhed with fury, a tune she hated to hear. He expected a certain dance to it, and she hated dancing for him. “It was me – all me.”

He forced her to face him. “You owe me, kitten. And I’ll see that debt repaid.”

Primrose held her breath, held still, controlled her impulse to flinch. **[Don’t react, don’t react.]** Just keep your head down, she told herself, keep your head down and you’ll survive the day. “Yes… Master…”

“Good then.” He brushed her cheek. “Purr sweetly,” he instructed, “And I may give you a treat.” Everything inside Primrose told her to run, to hit him away, to attack. Every nerve in her body screamed revulsion. Gods, the only thing she hated more than Helgenish was herself for letting him touch her like this. He brushed her hair off her neck. “Don’t dally when you’re done with your show,” he whispered, “I will be waiting in my chamber.” His eyes traced her body, far too eagerly for her liking. Unfortunately, she’d dealt with him in this sense. It disgusted her. Every touch felt toxic and violating, the rest of it more so. 

“I’ll have you purr for me some more.”

Just then, a stagehand burst in. “Primrose, it’s your cue,” he informed her.

Never so thankful for an interruption, she hurried to the tavern.

“Put on your face now, kitten,” Helgenish called.

“Yes, Master.” The door shutting behind her was a barrier far too easy for the bastard to overcome. Inside the tavern, she spotted Yusufa waiting for her. Despite her desperation to speak with her, stagehands directed her to get on stage as quickly as possible.

“Kept us waiting long enough, Primrose...” The stagehand’s voice quivered faintly with panic and frustration. Mostly frustration. They didn’t get paid enough to care about their job, but they were docked enough if the dancer’s missed a cue or didn’t meet expectations to care about that. Primrose pitied their situation, all too aware of the panic she herself felt when the person she depended on began to endanger her. They depended on her performance, and she knew she owed them a reason for scaring them. The stagehands were as respectful of the dancers as they could be, and she was indeed thankful for that. 

“I was… fixing my hair,” she replied half-heartedly. 

They knew she was lying. It didn’t matter though. “Better have been worth it. You’re our best chance at eating tonight.”

“Let the show begin.” Gazing out at the crowded tavern, Primrose shut her eyes to center herself. These people didn’t pay to see her dance, they paid to see a fantasy. It was her job to become that fantasy. As much as she hated herself for it, she was damn good. As shown by the crowd shouting in excitement as Primrose walked onto stage.

The music began, and she danced. She danced and danced better than she ever had. All this, she reflected, for her father. All this to get revenge on the men who took him from her, the men marked with the crow. Since his death, she’d hunted her father’s killers religiously. In tracking the men, she was led here to Sunshade. Helgenish found her, forced her into his harem, and she’d stayed, waiting and biding her time for news. One of them supposedly traveled through Sunshade often. All she needed was one word, one hint of news… 

But until that news came, she would dance. The indignities she suffered disgusted her, horrified her, ruined her. No matter. The loss of her honor was a small price to pay for vengeance. The faith she’d held before had died with her father – the only thing she had left was this, this quest for revenge.

The music came to an end, she took her bow and left the stage to raucous applause and whistles.

Backstage, she prepared for her next dance. “Primrose, watch your sandal. Looks like you broke a strap,” one of the stagehands warned.

She glanced down at her shoe, finding it to be true. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Go back to the dormitory, get yourself another pair,” he instructed, “And be quick about it.”

“Most happily,” she replied dryly, aware her tone came through. Hopefully, he wouldn’t go to Helgenish about it. She knew her next cue was coming soon. If she missed it there would be hell to pay. 

A young girl calling to her father made her stop in her tracks. “Papa, I’m going to grow up to be a beautiful dancing girl!” she exclaimed, not knowing what she truly said. Her father chastised her as gently as he could, urging her to know there were better things she could do.

“But look at her,” the daughter said, turning to Primrose, who had unfortunately stalled in front of the dormitory entrance, trapped in memories of her own father. “She’s… she’s beautiful.”

Primrose offered her a small smile and a twirl. Her father ushered her away, casting a disapproving look at Primrose as he left. Sighing, she walked into the dorms. The other dancers paused their conversation as she entered. Ignoring their stares, she made her way over to the drawers- “Ow!”

A sharp pain in her heel sent her crumbling to the floor. She pulled a long thorn out of her foot. Where had this come from? When did it get stuck in her shoe?

Snide comments from the dancers reached her. They were asses, yes, but they weren’t her problem. She couldn’t do anything for their attitude. She turned to find Yusufa at her side, as always. “Are you alright, Prim?”

Primrose met her big blue eyes full of care and concern. She had to be a good person, didn’t she? She had to be naïve enough to believe that she could survive as a good person in this cruel world so determined to crush all goodness… The world didn’t deserve people like Yusufa, and gods knew she definitely didn’t.

Glancing over at the tittering girls, she replied, “I’m fine. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Yusufa narrowed her eyes and turned. Even for her, enough was eventually enough. She shouted as such to the other girls, stopping their conversations. She glared at them, matching their deadly stares with perfectly pure fury. “Do you take such pleasure in others’ pain?” she snapped, “We’re nothing but the Master’s playthings - all of us!”

Primrose stared in awe at her friend. Her sweet, quiet friend who disguised her inner pain as gentility. She always believed Yusufa to be trusting, able to overcome the pain inside her by sheer will and compassion. But Yusufa was as broken as the rest of them, her ankles just as sore, her pain just as acute and ever-present. 

Yusufa carried on, practically foaming at the mouth. “And we all know what happens to girls who displease him. Or have you forgotten?” She forced them to face the memories of girls they’d known and lost, merciless in pressing the pressure point. “Beaten half to death and tossed in the gutter. Left for dead, sick and starving!”

“We all know well enough where we stand,” the ringleader snapped back, furious in an instant, "We know what he can to do us!”

“Then why torment one of our own?!” she demanded. There was her token goodness, her customary kindness and virtue. That was the Yusufa Primrose knew **[and cared for]**. As the others exchanged bitter looks, Primrose came to Yusufa’s side.

There was no reason for her life to be made miserable due to vain attempts to appeal to the “better nature” of vipers. “Thank you, Yusufa,” she whispered, “But there’s no need for you to make foes on my behalf.” 

“Prim…!” Yusufa protested, cut off as the door slammed open.

Helgenish’s hulking form burst in. “What are you doing, yowling back here?!” he demanded, face beet red with anger, “Sheathe your claws, it’s time for work! Or do you think money flows into my coffers by itself?! Get out there and collect your tips!”

The girls cautiously and silently left the dorm one by one. “Not you, Primrose,” he growled, staring intently at her. He grasped her arm tightly, preventing her exit.

Yusufa paused, half a mind to turn back and fight Helgenish for her. At a small shake of her friend’s head, she slowly left. But she promised herself that should anything happen to Prim, she would never let Helgenish get away with it. 

Primrose knew something bad was to come. But better she handle it herself than endanger Yusufa as well. As Helgenish paced, Primrose carefully eyed him. There were two outcomes to this scenario. Neither appealed, but one was preferable to the other.

Eventually, he spoke, his words laced with blazing fury and disappointment. “What was that sorry show you gave today?” he snarled. Primrose paled, kept her eyes downcast. **[Don’t react, don’t react.]** “Do you think I’m blind?! One glance was all I needed to see your mind was not where it ought to be!” He grasped her arm, grip tight enough to leave a mark already. “I know every thought in that pretty, empty little head of yours – and they were not of dancing tonight.”

Primrose refused to meet his eyes. **[Don’t react, don’t react.]** She couldn’t retaliate, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t say a word in her defense. Helgenish had no mercy for any of his dancers, even his favorite. Primrose knew that better than anyone. She had the scars to prove it, both mental and physical.

“You haven’t forgotten your debts now, have you?” He gripped her face, forcing her to meet his stone cold gaze. “You haven’t forgotten who owns you? You know what fate awaits you if you dare defy me. Don’t you, kitten?”

Primrose winced as he spoke. She knew… she knew all too well. His grip shifted to her shoulders, in a would-be tender voice, he crooned, “I’m warning you because I care, Primrose. I wouldn’t want to see anything untoward happen to my shining star.” 

**[Don’t react, don’t-]** She stepped back, so totally repulsed by the man in front of her. His patronizing sneer dropped into a scowling frown. **[Fix this, fix this NOW!]** “I’m sorry, Master. Forgive me.” She scrambled for an excuse, for a way to save herself from the impending disaster. “I was simply recalling the first day I came here to you.”  
She slowly lifted her eyes. Please let that be good enough, please accept that lie as true. **[Please don’t hurt me. Don’t react.]**

“Oh, were you, now?” Helgenish’s voice hit her like brittle shards of ice as she hadn’t felt since childhood winters. It grated and chaffed like the sand so pervasive in this desert.  
He didn’t believe her. **[Fix this!]** She had to salvage this, she had to find a way out of this. 

“Not a day-” She corrected herself, knowing she had to say what he wanted to hear. “Not a moment passes when I am not thankful for all you have given me.” Swallowing her mutilated pride, she forced herself to gaze adoringly at him. “Pray forgive my lack of focus today, Master,” she simpered, “It will not happen again.”

Helgenish grinned, his crooked, yellowing teeth bared in what could easily be mistaken for a snarl. “My dear, dear Primrose… I, too, often think back on the day you came to my door.” He chuckled. “Just imagining the sight of you dancing for me, as sweet and innocent as you were… it tickled me so.”

His words nauseated her, crawling like slimy worms over her skin. She tasted bile in her mouth.

“And you met my every expectation,” he purred, “You have been my best investment.” He sighed, a disapproving expression on his face. “But tonight,” he began, reluctant yet resigned and cold, “Tonight you have displeased me. And for this, you must atone.”

Primrose felt the blood drain out of her face. This meant one thing… He would shunt her onto the streets for the night, maybe even overnight. If he locked her out – as he had been known to do – gods knew what could happen to her. If Sunshade was shady during the day, it was a hellhole at night. People who couldn’t show their faces in the daylight were free to roam. And if one couldn’t show their face in Sunshade, of all places… they were someone better off not encountering.

True to fashion, Helgenish ordered her out of the streets. “Bring us some custom,” he commanded, “With coin enough to cover a week’s expenses. If you can do that, I may still… go easy on you. At least relatively so… kitten.”

Biting her tongue and fear back, Primrose replied, “You are kind, Master...” As quickly as she could, she sauntered out to the streets. **[Don’t react, don’t react…]** Outside, she found Yusufa waiting for her.

“Bravo, Prim,” she called, trying not to smile too widely, “That was a performance for the ages.” Primrose whirled around, eyes wide and surprised. She let Yusufa catch up to her to stand by her side. “How do you do it?” Yusufa gazed analytically at her friend, a mess of contradictions and problems. “I want to vomit every time I have to call him ‘Master’.”

 **[I have to, for my father…]** Prim bit back her reply, knowing it would only upset Yusufa. **[I have to, for myself…]** Instead, she asked, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out collecting tips?”

“I was worried about you. How’s your foot?” Yusufa was always so kind, even when it hurt her chances. She had a fire inside her, but she wasn’t the woman to burn the town down. Her foot was the last thing on Primrose’s mind. She was amazed Yusufa was still concerned for her. She held out a handkerchief. “Use this. Be careful out there, okay?” 

With a pat on her shoulder and a brief smile, Yusufa made her way to the tavern for another night of pawing and purring. Primrose watched her go, a warm flutter in her chest reminding her that at least one person in this gods-abandoned town was on her side. She roamed the streets, overly selective in the clientele she could acquire tonight. If she brought in anyone with less than miles-deep pockets, Helgenish was sure to make her life miserable. 

A well-dressed gentleman stood at a fruit stand. Nicely tailored outfit, immaculate hair and nails… Yes, he would do well. Shaking her hair back and rearranging her clothing, Primrose approached him, a simpering smile under heavy-lidded eyes. “Lovely evening,” she purred, stepping up next to him, “Isn’t it, milord?”

He stared at her, aghast. She invited him to join her at the tavern. He… couldn’t. He had work the next day, early. He couldn’t go with her - that was a bad idea… wasn’t it? Did he say that to her? He wasn’t sure.

Primrose’s false smile widened, teasing him. Well, he reflected briefly, it couldn’t really hurt… Right? She gripped his wrist and gently pulled him to the tavern. Inside, he was greeted by another girl who led him up the stairs. The minute he left her sight, her pretenses fell. She smelled Helgenish come to stand next to her, the scent a mixture of stale ale and the food the tavern served. The entire tavern smelt of the same, but on him, the smells twisted her stomach.

“Yes…” he muttered, sounding more or less pleased, “That one’s pockets look sufficiently deep.” To Primrose, he crowed, “Good work, kitten. You will be treated well tonight.”  
The thought of the true meaning behind those words writhed like snakes under her skin. “Well” was a relative term, and all the best it meant, in this scenario, was Primrose would not be spending her night on the streets. “You honor me, Master…”

Helgenish surveyed the tavern. “The seats are starting to fill. See that not a single cup runs empty,” he instructed. Men were more susceptible to their line of work when drunk.

“As you wish, Master.” Primrose hurried away from Helgenish, dropping into the persona she reserved for nights like this. Everything about her became a caricature, a two-dimensional façade of her body and sweetly-spoken words; her expressions, her stance, her walk, her voice… It all became something she hardly recognized – _she_ became something she hardly recognized. She stepped up to a table of well-dressed men, hoping for at least a tip to sate Helgenish’s greed. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she purred.

“Ah, Primrose,” one sighed. She’d seen him in the tavern time and time again. She could not recall his name. His eyes wandered over her – that she remembered. “You’re looking more and more lovely each time I see you.”

She smiled bashfully. **[Pretend. Don’t react.]** “It’s been a while since we last enjoyed your company.” She rested her arm on his shoulder in a familiar way. “Will you be with us long this evening?”

He laughed, a sound like a wind chime in a storm – that is, sharp and abrasive and annoying. “As long as you’ll have me for, my dear.”

Primrose forced a laugh herself and stood. “Is that so? I’ll have to give it some thought, then.” She waved her goodbye and sauntered away to the next table.

“…And if that’s all, I’ll be taking my leave.”

She froze. Her walls fell, crumbling like long-dead leaves underfoot. That voice… She knew that voice. Could it be? Could he be here? She peered through the crowd, no attempts at the subtlety she was so well known for. Yes. There on his left arm- _the mark of the crow!_

A thrill raced through her body, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in years. How long had she waited for this day, for this chance, this moment? Finally, he’d appeared before her. At long last… justice would be served.

Her fixed eyes followed him around the edge of the tavern, closer and closer and closer – till he pulled open the door. No! She couldn’t let him get away, not now! Not when she was this close! Running faster than she’d run in her life, she raced through the room to the door. She could catch him! She would-

“And where do you think you’re going?!” Helgenish’s vile voice had never infuriated her more than at this moment. “So curious about that man, are you?” he jibed, “Was it love at first sight, kitten?”

The impact of what had just happened felt like sprinting headlong into a wall. **[Fix this. Fix this!]** “Master…” she began. She scrambled for an excuse, an explanation, _something_ to salvage the situation, to save her from the wrath she incurred through her own thoughtlessness.

“You wouldn’t think of abandoning your stage and your customers before the night is through, now would you?” He knew she wouldn’t. His question served to merely remind her of the consequences of such an action. She shook her head, eyes trained to the ground. **[Don’t react. Don’t react.]**

“Back to work, Primrose,” he snarled, the sound sending chills up her spine. When she didn’t immediately move, he stepped closer. That was all he needed to do to threaten her as surely as pulling a knife. “I trust I don’t need to repeat myself? You _do_ remember what happens to the wicked little kittens who cross me, don't you?”

She had been so close, _so close_ to finally avenging her father. By now the man with the mark had undoubtedly vanished into the Sunlands desert, never to be seen or heard from again. Truly, this was all she had left… sore feet, downcast eyes, and constant fear. No. She was _so close!_ If she lost him now, she may never get the chance to find him again! She had to go after him. She had to, even if it meant surrendering her position in Helgenish’s “house” and starting anew. 

Yusufa sensed her friend’s distress. “Prim?” she called, as quietly as she could, “What’s the matter? It’s not like you to look all flustered like this.” Yusufa had never seen her so alert and alarmed, even in the most deadly situations they encountered here.

Primrose flushed at the realization that others could see her instability. It only served to make her face red under her wide, skittish eyes. She couldn’t explain all this to Yusufa. How could she even begin? All she knew about were the nightmares. And even of that, Primrose had shared very little.

At her silence, Yusufa rested a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me,” she assured Prim. “For you to risk angering the master like that, it must be something important.”

Primrose sharply looked up from the ground. How Yusufa managed to peg each and every emotion Primrose felt… she didn’t know. After so many years of it, one would assume she got used to it. She never did.

Glancing around, Yusufa smiled mischievously. “Leave it to me,” she promised, “I’ll keep his eyes busy. You slip out the back door.”

Her gaze softened. “You shouldn’t get involved. You will put yourself at risk,” she protested. Primrose had little concern for her own safety… but she wasn’t sure if she would ever forgive herself should Yusufa be harmed because of her. 

Yusufa stepped closer, taking Primrose’s hand in hers. “Look, Prim… Maybe you don’t tell me what you’re thinking. But that doesn’t matter to me. I’m on your side and always will be.” The words held the weight of a vow, a promise never to be broken. 

Primrose had never heard words such as these spoken to her. She could hardly believe her ears. “On my… side?”

Yusufa took her other hand, a small smile pulling at her lips. “When the other girls would pick on me, tell me to know my place… You were always the one who stood by me…”

_“Sit down, Yusufa. This is more important than you.” A hand shoved her back, forcing her to the ground. She couldn’t understand why they acted like this. They were all in the same terrible situation. That was before she understood that a pecking order had to be established, one in which the strong thrived and the weak… well, the weak were trodden into dust._

_“Leave her be! Can’t you see she’s afraid?” A hand reached out to pull her up. Yusufa cautiously took it and found herself standing again, in front of a gorgeous woman with lovely brown hair and the deepest brown eyes she’d ever looked into. “My name is Primrose,” she said, in a deep and low voice that entranced her immediately._

_“Yusufa,” she replied, aware but not minding that she still held the girl’s hand._

“When I couldn’t sleep, you sat up into the night with me…”

_“Yusufa? Yusufa!”_

_She jolted awake, drenched in sweat and wrapped tight in the thin blanket on her bed. Too tight. It was twisted around her, trapping her arms and legs. She couldn’t move! She thrashed to loosen the blanket-but to no avail. She felt someone’s hand on her shoulder._

_“Yusufa.”_

_With wide and terrified eyes, she froze. Panting, she turned to see Primrose looking down at her. Carefully, she helped her out of the blanket._

_“Are you alright?”_

“If ever I needed someone, any day at any time, you were there… You were always by my side,” Yusufa said. Primrose couldn’t reply for fear that if she opened her mouth, she might start crying. “You never say much,” Yusufa half-joked, “You’re always so distant. Aloof, even. But I know you just don’t want to burden others with your troubles.”

She blushed faintly, eyes dropping away from Primrose’s. “I know you better than you think, Prim. And I know that, deep down, you have a good heart.”

“A good… heart?” No one in her memory had ever said those words to her. No one had ever had this blind faith in her that Yusufa seemed to have. She was the person people judged as haughty, as pretentious, as ‘above it all’ – as the other dancers had deemed her. In her life, she’d been forced to accept one thing as certain: Primrose Azelhart did not have a good heart. To hear Yusufa say that she did… it meant more to her than she could put into words.

She stared at Yusufa, at her blue, blue eyes and dark hair, at her kind face and precious smile. “Yusufa... I-” She stepped back, gently pulling her hands out of Yusufa’s. She had to go, and quickly - else the man escape her. “Thank you.” **[I love you.]**

Primrose turned away, trusting Yusufa to distract Helgenish long enough for her to slip out the upstairs door unnoticed. Yusufa watched her go and sighed to herself. A woman of few words, as always. They meant so much more for it. She forced herself to turn away from the staircase, from Prim’s exit. She had a job to do and a promise to keep. And gods be damned if she wasn’t going to do just that.

Primrose raced down the poorly cobbled roads of Sunshade. The sandy ground made paving difficult work and resulted in potholes and uneven streets. It made running in sandals quite the task. She made the town square in good time, peering through the night and the crowds to spot any sign of the marked man. He was nowhere to be found. Dammit! But wait. 

Helgenish shuffled through the square, squinting around. He glanced behind several times, clearly searching to see if anyone was following him. He didn’t spot her. His suspicious behavior caught her eye, If he was up to something, perhaps it was linked to the man with the mark of the crow. Primrose was reluctant to go too near to Helgenish after so carefully leaving the tavern, but… this was her best shot. Other than the creeping Helgenish, she had no clues to the man’s whereabouts. Steeling herself, she crouched and followed the Master.

Helgenish led Primrose to a secluded corner where someone waited for him, shrouded in shadow. He stepped into the light when he saw Helgenish and Primrose stifled a gasp. He was here. The man with the mark of the crow was here and she could get to him. She could kill him now-! If only Helgenish hadn’t led her to him. If only Helgenish weren’t there. Not that she had any reservations about attacking him. Taking down two men at once with nothing but the dagger she could fit in her clothing, however, was a rather difficult and daunting task.

No, for now, she would wait. She knew he was here, after all. When Helgenish left, she could make her move. Until then… she was curious why he was in Sunshade. What business could a murderer have here? Even in this town of unsavory characters, killers were not viewed with kindness.

“You _will_ bring the women I need,” he said, in a tone suggesting they were continuing a conversation, “Won’t you now?” 

Primrose shivered behind her wall, suddenly cold despite the desert’s heat. **[Don’t scream. Don’t scream.]** She clenched her eyes shut, warding off memories of the night her father was killed. They fueled her desire for revenge, but they would not help her now.

“Competent help is so hard to come by these days… Whatever is a man to do?”

His voice reminded her of icicles breaking, a sound she remembered distinctly from her childhood. The sudden crack as the ice melted just enough that it couldn’t support its own weight, and then the blast like shattering glass as it connected with the ground. As he spoke, the words left his mouth like sharp, freezing blades, cutting through the air. His sentences fell on those listening as brittle shards of fractured ice.

Primrose shifted, stepping as close to the pair as she dared. She heard Helgenish next. He sounded strange, so unlike the man she knew him as. He answered to this man, worked to please him and pacify him as she and the dancers did for him. A desperate need for approval laced his words. “I-I can assure you, m’lord, I am doing all that I can-”

A scoffing laugh escaped the left-hand man. “Helgenish,” he said, reaching out to pat his shoulder, “We are friends. Are we not?” He shrugged, as though thinking it through. “Friends take care of one another, yes? They do not… disappoint each other.”

Helgenish paled. Primrose was sure the man’s hand on his shoulder gripped him hard. She felt no sympathy for him. It was due he suffered the same as he forced the dancers to suffer. “I-I will do everything in my power-” Helgenish spluttered, stumbling over his words.

“I saw a fine dancing girl in the tavern,” the man said, nonchalant, “I would rather like such a girl for my own.”

Primrose’s eyes narrowed. How much time had he spent in the tavern? How often had he been coming? How long had Helgenish known this man? Their conversation did not stop for her thoughts. She adjusted her position and continued to listen. 

“Bring the women to the place marked on this map,” he instructed, passing Helgenish a slip of folded parchment. He turned to leave. “And Helgenish… Try not to keep me waiting.”

“B-but of course, m’lord…” If she could just get that map… Shit, Helgenish was headed straight toward her! Shit, shit, shit! **[Don’t scream. Don’t react.]**

She shook her head and crouched, hoping against hope the darkness of the night and Helgenish’s preoccupied mind would let her remain hidden. She held her breath until he was out of sight. A long exhale and she raced after the foul crow.

His path led her through the catacombs under the sands. It was a difficult path, fraught with twists and turns. She wondered briefly if the maze moved to block her path. Often she believed she was right on his heels, only to realize he’d turned the other direction as she rounded a corner to face a dead end. At long last, she emerged from the catacombs, dirty and bruised and so, so eager to destroy one of the men who had taken her father from her.

As she stepped into the sun – was it daylight already? – she found herself staring at a tall cliff face. There was no way she could climb it in time to catch him. She couldn’t believe her awful luck. After all that, he was going to get away. A few yards away, she spotted a sloping incline that led to the top of the cliff. It wouldn’t be an easy trek, but at least she had a chance at catching up with him. 

“And where might you be off to, kitten?”

Primrose stopped in her tracks. No. No, no, no! Not now! Not when she was this damn close to getting him! “Master Helgenish…” she replied, peering up at him. 

Why had she stopped? Why did she feel this paralyzed in his presence? **[Fix this! Fix this!]** No. He had no business interfering with her any more than he already had! “Whatever are you doing here at this hour?” she called.

“Funny you should ask…” She could see Helgenish’s yellowed grin despite the distance. “A worthless little stray, this one, but she was kind enough to help me catch a rat!” He hauled Yusufa’s bound and gagged figure to the edge of the cliff.

“Yusufa!” Not for a moment did Primrose believe Yusufa had revealed her to Helgenish. She wouldn’t have. She couldn’t have… right?

Helgenish ripped out the gag. “Prim! I’m-I’m so sorry!” she gasped, speaking over the ever-present wind of the dunes and the tears streaming down her face.

Helgenish cast a scornful look at her. “She was quite intent on keeping her mouth shut… But my boys helped her get it open.” The horrors Yusufa had been subjected to didn’t bear thinking about… “It seems I was too lenient with the girl. I won’t make that mistake again,” he snarled, pulling something from his waist. The sunlight glinted off the metal of a long dagger. 

“No! Yusufa!”

The knife entered her side with a scream. It left as Helgenish kicked her over the side, the blade bloodied.

“No… No, no, no! Yusufa!” She landed in the sand at Primrose’s feet. She collapsed to her knees, hands trying and failing to stem the flow of blood from the gaping wound in her side. Yusufa tried to help, but her strength bled out onto the sand with her blood, a deep red stain spreading out over the dune, her torso, and Primrose’s hands. “Yusufa, please…”

“P-Prim.” Yusufa turned her head slightly to peer up at Primrose. “I’ve never… heard you… shout so-” She fought against the pain to force the words out of her mouth.

“What?!” Primrose stared at her, wide-eyed, confused. “This is no time to-” To what? To reminisce, to mourn? To die?

Yusufa’s breathing shallowed. “Hey- Prim?” She could hear the tears she’d been fighting in the quiver of her voice. “We-we’re… …nds …aren’t we?”

“What?” Primrose felt something hot on her cheek, different from the sand and the sun. Tears. She didn’t care. Let her tears fall. She pressed her hands on the wound more forcefully, as though more pressure would stop the blood still leaking through her fingers. Gods, there was so much blood! 

Yusufa grimaced in pain. “I was- I was sold… to this place… as a child,” she explained. Primrose realized she’d never known that. She’d never bothered to ask, in all the years they’d known each other, how long Yusufa had been suffering at the hands of that man. “Everyone was… so cold, so- cruel… I thought I’d never… make any- friends.” The effort of those words alone had drained so much from her. But she had not survived so long for no reason. Primrose had witnessed Yusufa’s strength before, but this… this truly showed her the depth of her power: she continued speaking. “It was… lonely… having no one… But you-Prim… you- were different.” She smiled, as though the memories were fond. “Always… standing tall- proud- No… matter- how hard… your days… 

“Looking- at you… it gave me- strength…”

“Yusufa…” Primrose breathed, rivers of tears running down her face. 

She took a sharp breath, trying so hard to stay awake. “Tell me- Prim… Were we-were we… friends?”

A sob escaped Primrose, wracking her whole body. The blood kept coming. Gods, it kept coming and coming. But… “Yes, Yusufa. You… You were my friend.” Those words. Those simple words put such a bright smile on Yusufa’s face. She lay in the desert sands, bleeding into Primrose’s arms… and she had the brightest smile. **[I’m sorry. I love you.]**

“I’m… so- happy,” she whispered, her hand reaching for Prim’s. Finding it, she gripped it in hers, tight. “Not… alone… anymore.” Her eyes fluttered, her breathing slowed. Her grip loosened.

“No. No! Yusufa! No! Please, please, no!” Primrose held her hands against the wound. Nothing. She shook her chest. Nothing. “No! Yusufa, no, please!”

Red coated her hands and legs and Yusufa’s torso. It pooled in the sand around them, stained their clothing. She cared nothing for the sobs that tore from her. Primrose tenderly lifted her hands to Yusufa’s face, gently holding her with shaking hands. “No,” she whimpered, “Please… Yusufa…” A tear fell from her cheek, landing on her hand. It slid to the ground, cutting through the blood.

“Is it finally over?” Helgenish drawled. “I must say, at least her last performance has some life! If she’d shown that sort of potential earlier, I might have kept her on longer!”

Primrose lifted her head. **[Don’t react. Fix this. Pretend. Don’t react. Don’t scream. Don’t-]** “Enough.” 

The word ripped from her throat, a statement of anger and resentment and enough.

“What was that?”

“I have danced enough for you.” Primrose stood, anger the likes of which she’d felt only once before coursing through her veins. It filled every crevice of her body, every bend and nook and cranny until it writhed and seethed throughout every part of her. But it kept growing. It grew and grew and grew until she felt it pouring out of her. Tendrils of dark energy emerged from her hands, her eyes, her skin – from everywhere – made of the same living shadow of the crow in her dreams. The wind stopped.

“Primrose,” Helgenish began. Her head snapped up. He saw her lifted gaze: the brown eyes he so marketed completely consumed with black hatred. A deeper, fuller black than any he’d seen before.

At the sound of his voice, her face contorted in fury. She threw her hand up and out. The guards behind him seized up, unable to move. She clenched her fist. They crumpled to the ground. They were dead before they hit it. Primrose tilted her head, unconcerned. She stepped forward. Dark energy pooled at her foot. She did not sink into the sand. Another step forward, and this time up. With each step, she neared Helgenish. She felt her anger grow darker and darker, more and more black energy pouring from her. It swirled around her as though a suit of armor had formed from the expanse of the night sky itself. 

When she stood face to face with Helgenish, he knew a terror more real than the ground beneath his feet. His mind jumped from option to option – flee, fight, bargain, beg, cower… none seemed likely to dissuade this dark avatar of Primrose out of killing him. He cowered.

Staring at the shaking form of the man who had tormented her for years, who had destroyed her honor and ruined her entirely… she felt nothing. The words he so often repeated echoed in her mind. She gripped his jaw and forced him to face her. When she spoke, she spoke in two voices; her own, and another much darker, much more terrible voice that reverberated through the entire desert.

**“You are nothing.”**

Helgenish gasped for breath, eyes wide and skittish in fear. He couldn’t feel his body. He felt weightless, like air, a breeze away from scattering into oblivion. And soon enough that feeling faded. The only thing he felt was fear. Until he was as she said, nothing. 

The map given him by the marked man drifted to the ground. She pocketed it, knowing it would dictate her next stop. She stared out at the broken bodies of the guards. Primrose felt her feet on solid ground again, as her anger faded and the dark energy surrounding her dissipated. She looked back to the ground, back at Yusufa’s body. Using the last of whatever burst of power had enabled her to do that, she threw herself over the cliff and landed safely by Yusufa.

Her half-closed eyes reflected the sun. Another sob wrenched itself from her throat. She cradled the woman’s head in her hands, unable to bear the thought of leaving her to the elements and animals to dispose of. But she couldn’t carry her all the way back to Sunshade alone. 

“Help!” she screamed. There was nothing else for her to do. “Help me!” She yelled and shouted into the driving wind for what felt like hours before someone hurried to her, well, two someones.

“Hey, hey,” one man said, dropping to her side in an instant. “What happened?”

With the amount of blood in the sand, Primrose’s tear-stained face and red eyes told him all he needed to know. He dropped back to sit on his heels. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, packing up the satchel.

Primrose didn’t need his apologies or his healing. “Help me,” she begged.

The stranger nodded. “Of course.”

The other man stared between the two of them. “You aren’t even going to try-?”

“She’s long dead, Therion,” he interrupted. “Trust me.” He introduced himself as Alfyn, an apothecary from Clearbrook, his companion as Therion, supposedly from Boulderfall. Gingerly, they helped Primrose carry Yusufa’s body back to Sunshade.

“You should probably leave town,” Therion mentioned, recalling the dead guards near where they found Primrose. After… handling Yusufa’s burial arrangements, he and Alfyn brought her back to their room at the local inn. He recalled the innkeeper’s raised eyebrows when they entered. No matter. He knew Sunshade had the reputation of being an easy town – and it lived up to its reputation alright.

Numbly, she nodded, staring out the window down to the streets. The usual hustle and bustle raced by beneath her, unaware of what had just occurred and unaffected by it. It felt disgraceful. After everything that happened, the sun ought not to be shining. Someone else out there had to realize she was gone, had to feel some sort of pain for her death... It couldn't be that only she would mourn her. Yusufa deserved more than the tears of a broken woman.

“Where are you headed then?” Alfyn asked. He regretted interrupting her thought, but she looked unstable at best. Completely destroyed at worst…

“Stillsnow.”

“What, in the Frostlands?”

Another nod. **[A woman of few words...]**

"Well, shucks, I can’t rightly let ya go alone.” Alfyn made his way to stand in front of her. “What do you say?” he asked, holding out a hand for her to shake, “Need a partner?” Therion cleared his throat pointedly. “Or two?” Alfyn amended.

Primrose stared at him, almost uncomprehending. This sort of pure kindness was uncommon in this vast, dark world. It reminded her painfully of Yusufa. She knew it would only cause her problems if she went ahead without help, but traveling with these men opened her to the pain of loss should she grow to care for them. She would stay aloof, then, not allow herself to appreciate the kindness of strangers. 

“I’d be glad of it,” she replied, shaking his hand. Alfyn smiled to himself in a satisfied sort of way. Primrose’s gaze shifted back to the window. The world may not grieve for her loss, but it would never again chain them down.

**Yusufa. We are free at last… my friend.**


End file.
